Divine Pressure

As the sky turns crimson,
I lay in your arms,
Gazing into your soul,
Allowing waves of amber vibrations to find way,
Into my being.
I raise my hand,
Cupping your cheek.
You smile.

As the sky turns crimson,
Casting a glow on your face,
Folding into imperfections.
My eyes,
The outline of hair,
Thin grey strands.
Fingertips reach,
Tickled by little bristles.
I spy,
The beginning lines, crows feet.
Lips drawn in,
Ridges against soft petals,
Becomes air.

As the sky turns crimson,
Time passes,
Time claimed.
Large chocolate eyes,
Still mischievous.

As the sky turns crimson,
My mind runs.
I wondered,
If you ever danced the night away with a woman in a scarlet dress,
If the beauty of foreign lands touched you,
If crisp mountain air stunned you,
If the purity of innocence moved you,
And if it didn’t,
Should it matter.

As the sky turns crimson,
Should it matter?

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